Even in this era, being anywhere near a battle, much less somewhere the combatants lay within direct line of sight, could prove fatal. Nevertheless, we made the perilous journey to observe the ongoing war so that we could send word of its progress to the refugee camp-slash-village. (Who knew that of all the things to survive the apocalypse, the market for a twenty-four hour news cycle would be one of them?)

“I still can’t believe Mecha-Hitler is being trounced by slave boys,” I remarked to my partner as the field of combat fell into view.

“Nubile slave boys,” he corrected, enjoyment evident on his face. “And why not? It’s not like the original Hitler was any level of competent, right?”

“Well, no,” I had to admit. “But between an army of cloned insane genocidal tyrants and another of former sex slaves under new but not improved management, it’s hard to root for either side. I just wished they were more equally matched so they could wipe each other out and leave us the hell alone.”

He ‘tsked’. “Awfully cold of you, isn’t it, Miss Pacifist?”

“And you’re awfully cavalier about what might happen to you if either side overwhelms the other and starts pushing in this direction,” I pointed out. “No matter who wins, we’re all royally fucked, and not in a good way.”